Tag Archives: reflection

Became a Fan

I’m a fan, you’re a fan, all of us are a fan of some higher being or object that is so much more wonderful than us. We, the masses, are undergoing a massive “fanization,” a process by which we are turning into followers of every brand of pizza, microblog and your staple rock band. I guess there’s just so many of us that it is getting harder and harder to imagine all of us will be big someday. Someone who’s better educated, more widely connected, has a better eye for color and a better ear for notes, and more natural curls in their thicker hair is bound to take that spotlight away from us. Doors of fame closing on all sides, we resign happily to the status of becoming a fan. It’s as if the old fanaticism for religion had disintegrated into a trillion smaller fandoms, each with their own rites, beliefs and sacrifices. And our gods look down at us, and make use of us by convincing us to buy their t-shirts, CDs and listening to their gospels uploaded on facebook. Nah, this is not about commercialization. Such an old cliche concept! After all, we know we wanna buy and we don’t have any problems with that. When did you last see a person feel guilty over buying a DVD of an indie film starring Gael Garcia Bernal, anyway? So it’s not the same commercialization rubbish. It’s just about becoming a fan of a whole shelf of personas and things that have acquired personalities of their own; and becoming content with that, sincerely glad for these things. I don’t know. There’s something sweet and sour in that acceptance.

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Forever Children

I’ve been really caught up with the concept of “maturity” for the longest time because of this gut feeling that I haven’t been maturing normally as could be expected with someone my age. I just chalk it up to abnormal hormonal levels and processes (since I am premature), which I also partly blame for the failure of my voice box to develop, and so therefore, my irritatingly high-pitched voice so unattractive to ladies.

But things that happened very recently made me reconsider what it is to be “mature,” what it is to be an “adult.” Of course the roughest measuring stick for that is our biological age, but we all think of something else when we say “We are already mature” or when a woman says, “I like a mature man.” It’s got something to do with reasoned thinking, stability of the mind, direction, purpose, solidity of personal plans and relationship with yourself.

Or so we’d like to think of it that way. It came to me last night that maturity, in a nutshell, is just our perceived success with our personal goal of filling in someone else’s shoes. I say “perceived success” because I think we always fail. And the most amusing part is that we never really become older in the process — we remain to be directionless infants needing guidance.

Maturity is a myth. It’s Santa Clause, Tooth Fairy and the Loch Ness Monster. No one in the history of all mankind has become an adult. But it is a fact that we are all purposeless cry-babies wanting someone strong and wise and powerful to lead us to where we should go. And in our effort to be like our father, mother, grandfather, grandmother, teacher, fictional heroic character — we fashion ourselves as ascending to a new level of wisdom and personal worth called “maturity” or “adulthood.” But there’s no such thing. We are, as it were, doomed to follow the steps of our own mature hero, scurry in his gigantic sheltering shadow while believing in the lie that we absolutely know what we are doing; that we are now capable and equipped with a newfound wisdom and sense of purpose. The world, as it seems to me, is one immense game of tag where all of us try our best to catch our heroes and be like them. But all along, our heroes are also snotty children themselves seeking comfort for they cannot ever catch their own heroes, their true maturity slipping away into the unreachable horizon.

I think of all this because now I’m done with this whole issue of “growing up.” I’m ready to live like a child all my life with all honesty. Perhaps that path is more fun.


Inspired by a friend

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Death Comes to Us on a Friday

Friday is the most unusual of all the days of the week. It is the penultimate day before the weekend. Everything ends on a Friday: the rush, the frustrations, the expectations, the wickedness of work. They end, at least temporarily, on a Friday.

Friday is neither part of the work week nor the weekend. It is somewhere in between. This is probably the reason why we feel so lethargic when Friday comes. It’s like we’re working while tasting the sweetness of the weekend at the tip of our tongue. The day is a transition from here to there, from files to TV marathons, from coffee to beer, from the office to the park, from our stiff work clothes to our loose outdoor clothes, from pain to pleasure, from colleagues to family. We’re working while we’re heading home on a Friday. We’re being slaves to our bosses while we’re setting ourselves free on this very unique day. In a way, everything ends and starts on a Friday. Continue reading


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100 Thoughts on Love


Romantic love is the most important of all kinds of love. It is the most interesting, the one that fills us up and launches us into the heights of our art or lack thereof. Even when we think we are talking about something else, perhaps another type of love, we are still talking about romantic love. It’s our tail if we were monkeys.


We always seek (romantic) love. When we enter the right age, we carry our inner mission to seek it in our classrooms, neighborhoods, offices, and everywhere else. We need it. We’re always sniffing for it like dogs.


The will is not enough to get love. You must be an agreeable person to get another person. Love is generally a celebration of life. One does not fall in love with a sick, dying, decaying person.


You must do your part to get love. “Working for it” is not as necessary as “doing something about it.” Some people are luckier than others. They lift a finger and love comes pouring down from the sky like heavy rain. Other people can grow a farm full of red roses and love couldn’t give a shit.


Love is ultimately indefinable because it is a personal subjective experience. There is no sacred table by which we can measure if we’re already in love or not. We claim we are in love. In a way, we decide when we are in love.


Love at its most basic level is sexual. There must be a semblance of physical attraction to support the more nuanced areas of love. Sexual attraction is a stepping stone to reach the more advanced levels of the emotion.


A person is only able to rise above the mere physical when in love because society enables him to explore other features of the object of his love. Thus, for example, he can afford to fall in love with someone who lacks beauty but who is intelligent because society needs that sort of love to be more productive. Society needs intelligent people as much as it needs beautiful people. Society needs different forms of love so that different people can all hope to reach their own kind of love. Variety in love is useful to society because not all people are beautiful.


Love always defies our expectations in that it is never how we imagine it to be.


The object of your love, the other person, is not necessarily the best person you’ve met but she means so much anyway. We weigh the importance of people in our lives erratically when we’re in love.


We are full of errors when we are in love. We couldn’t care less. Continue reading


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